


Chains and Charcoal

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter finds Neal after he was taken in 5x13 but that doesn't mean he's okay, in fact, he's far from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chains and Charcoal

He gave up trying to get out of the chains. They were shackled so tight around his wrists that instead of silver steel they were rusted with his metallic red liquid. He was tired from lack of food and the drug he kept getting injecting with. He didn’t know who took him or what was wanted of him. He knew he had pissed off a lot of people in his life, but this, this was inhumane.

He knew no one would look for him either. Peter thought he was mad that he didn’t get his release and decided to run. Mozzie probably thought he took off without him. Tears filled his eyes as he replayed the last words that monster said to him as he took his last breath of fresh air in the park.

Through his bouts of consciousness he thought of Kate. He didn’t know why. She had been dead for years, yet he still longed for her. Sometimes he thought of Sara. He never thought of Rebecca.

He groaned in pain, the fire in his ribs calling to him they were broken. The room he was in was small and dirty. Concrete walls surrounded him. He wasn’t even given a bed. His bruised back lay on top of cement and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.

**************

Peter sat on his couch enjoying the baseball game on TV. A beer in his hand and Satchmo at his feet usually would have elated him. Instead he hated it. Sundays were once filled with Elizabeth on his chest reading a book and Neal coming by for dinner. Now that was a distant life away. Sure Elizabeth came home every other weekend but it wasn’t the same.

And Neal…he knew it would be the last time he saw the man when he told him his sentence wasn’t going to end. He knew he would run. He thought about finding him but he couldn’t stand the thought of Neal being shackled for another few more years just so the FBI could use him. Better he be free in Paris or Belize or Morocco. Never the less, he still missed him.

A knock at his door rustled him out of his spot and he lazily made his way to answer it. He was not expecting the man on the other side of it.

“What the hell?” Peter asked, totally bewildered.

Mozzie didn’t bother for the invitation to come in.

“Why are you here? I thought you would be with Neal.”

Mozzie sat down but didn’t answer right away. “I thought he left without me. I thought he would eventually tell me where he was.”

“He cut you lose? Couldn’t take the risk maybe,” Peter offered.

“I’m familiar with paranoia Suit. Neal isn’t paranoid. He wouldn’t do that to me. I went to his apartment. His emergency bag was still there . . . he wouldn’t leave without it.”

Peter got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “What are you suggesting?”

“Someone took him,” Mozzie said flatly.

“You don’t know that.”

Mozzie took out a DVD and held it up. “I do.”

“What is that?”

“I got it on my doorstep this morning. I only watched 30 seconds of it and…”

Peter shook inwardly. No, that couldn’t be. Neal ran . . . he ran away.

But the video revealed he didn’t.

Peter covered his mouth in pure horror. There indeed was Neal sitting on the floor of a small room. Blood smeared on his face and blotched on his blue plaid shirt. His hair unkempt and messy. His face gaunt. His wrists chained.

The video zoomed in on his face. His cheeks were stained with tears.

_“Look into the camera I said.”_

_And Neal did, and he looked petrified._

_“Now because you were so good you get to say your goodbyes."_

_Neal cringed at the words and more tears built up in his eyes._

_“This is your last chance."_

_“I’m sorry Mozzie. I know you think I left you . . . didn’t. He took me--”_

_And then a big hand punched Neal in the face so hard that he fell to the ground._

_“I told you no details!”_

_Neal pushed himself up, blood now pouring down his face from his nose. He wiped it away along with his tears._

_“You were a good friend to me. You were always there for me. Please . . . tell Peter I’m sorry. He always tried to help me and I always screwed it up. He was like a father to me. He was good to me . . . just tell him I’m sorry.”_

_“Now say the last part. What I told you to say."_

_Neal didn’t answer. The man raised his fist in response. “Don’t feel bad for me. I deserve this . . . ’m nothing more than a criminal.”_

And then it cut off.

“Jesus Christ!” Peter shouted as he stood up. His heart was racing. He had been wrong. He didn’t run. Neal was kidnapped! Beaten, starved, tortured. He looked over to Mozzie to see him crying silently.

“I’m going to find him,” Peter said firmly.

“Or his body . . .”

*******************

Something about the house made Peter’s blood run cold. This was the eighth sting operation he was going into in his attempt to find his CI. The last few weeks had turned up some good leads but in the end they never found who they were looking for. There was something about this guy though, Jimmy Copper . . . something just didn’t sit right.

The house he was walking into was cold and decorated terribly. It looked like a cheap version of a seventiesitcom.

“Just curious, how did you come by my name?”

“I’ve gone to several other forgers; none of them have been able to satisfy my needs. Word on the street is that Copper is the best, so here I am.”

The man smiled. Peter shivered.

“Coffee?”

“No thanks, let’s get to business,” Peter responded.

“No bullshit, I get it. What are you looking to forge?”

“Bonds. They need to be perfect.”

Copper’s smile grew wider. “You came to the right place Mr. Haldman.”

Peter took the papers out of his briefcase. “I’ll need the signatures to be perfect,”

“$15,000 a piece.”

Peter nodded.

Copper took the papers and got up and started to leave the room. “Aren’t you going to do it here?” Peter asked.

“No, one of my employees will do it. He’s very good.”

Peter’s heart started to race. He was getting closer. “May I meet him?”

“He likes to work in private.”

“No offense Mr. Copper, but for $15,000 a signature, I believe I am owed the pleasure.”

He didn’t blink an eye. “You wait here or we don’t have a deal.”

Peter could do nothing but wait then. He heard the sound of keys jingling and Copper's voice but not the words being spoken.

20 minutes later he returned. There was blood on his knuckles but not on his face. “These are perfect,” Copper said with a smile.

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and peered at the forgeries. There it was, the small flick of the letters that let Peter know this was Neal Caffrey’s handwriting.

Peter grabbed his briefcase out and took out the money. As soon as Copper put his hands on it, a loud bang emerged. The two men looked at each other. Then another loud bang. Peter’s stomach flipped as heard what sounded like a body throwing itself against metal over and over again.

Copper cleared his throat. “Well Mr. Haldman, I believe our business is complete. Now if you don’t mind.”

Before Peter could say anything Copper grabbed his arm and was pushing him out the door. Peter stumbled onto the patio and caught himself from falling. He rubbed his arm at the sudden heat emerging from the release of the brief but tight grip.

He took his cell phone out, finally getting a signal now that he was outside. “I think this is our guy.”

It took every fiber in his being not to break that door down but he knew he needed backup. Within five minutes Jones and Diana came with three more agents. They had their guns already drawn.

The agents knocked the door down and infused themselves within the house. Copper was nowhere to be found.

“I saw him go down these stairs earlier,” Peter said. Soon he before a door and tried opening it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“What if he already left?” Jones asked.

And then they heard  a sickening crack of something being hit.

“No! Please! Please don’t!”

Peter’s eyes widened. Neal. That was Neal’s voice.

Peter kicked the door, it still didn’t budge. Jones and Diana started helping as the screams of agony grew louder.

Finally it gave away and for the first time Peter’s hands shook as he lifted his gun up.

What lay before them was a small cell erected in the middle of the cold damp room that smelled of decay. Copper was on his knees, towering over Neal who lay on the floor, his hands tightly around his arm.

“Lay one more finger on him and I’ll shoot you in the place where your heart is supposed to be,” Peter said firmly.

Copper stood up slowly. “You’re not taking him. I paid a lot of money for him. I bought him fair and square.”

Peter felt his hand shaking more. Bought him? “Step away from him. Put your hands up now!”

He smiled. “No. I told, you he’s my property.”

Peter was just about to accidentally pull the trigger when Diana seemed to have had enough and brushed pass Peter and swiftly yanked Copper into a strong hold. She twisted his arm around his back and sent him falling to his knees. She handcuffed him quickly.

Peter lowered his gun and raced to his friend. He knelt down next to him, his eyes widened as he saw Neal’s face. A bruise covered his eye and another one underneath his cheekbone. There was fresh blood smeared across his mouth. His face was full of dirt. His breathing was shallow and uneven. And his eyes…they were glassy and unfocused.

Neal squinted hard. “St-stop.”

Peter held his breath. He found him. He saw his hands were tightly bound in heavy chains. A needle was sticking out of his arm. “What did you give him?!” 

“I believe I have the right to remain silent,” Copper smugly said.

“Dammit,” Peter said under his breathe as he took out a tissue and carefully removed the needle. “What happened to his hands?” Dry blood was smeared on them, blood caked into the fine lines. Some of his fingernails were missing.

Peter looked to Copper expecting no answer. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he saw this monster smile like nothing in the world was wrong with this.

“I was going to give him back. H’s almost all used up now . . . worthless. ”

Peter’s hands trembled uncontrollably at these words. Neal was not a thing, he wasn’t to be used like an object, and he wasn’t worthless.

“Neal, it’s me Peter. You’re safe now,” he whispered gently as he tugged on the chains trying to free his hands. He looked around for a key. Neal didn’t answer, it was as if he didn’t notice Peter was next to him. He turned to Jones. “Get me some damn bolt cutters.”

Jones nodded and headed off, he was sick with nausea at the site in front of him. Peter took his jacket off and placed it on the floor. “I’m going to turn you over onto your back okay, Neal?”

He was cold to the touch. His shirt was ripped and dirtied with blood. He felt the bones popping out of his back he was so thin.

Marks were around his neck. Peter peered closer, they looked like teeth mark.

“C’mon, Neal, open your eyes.”

“I didn’t run,” he whispered sluggishly.

“I know,” Peter said as he feverishly checked over Neal’s body.

Jones finally came back with a bolt cutters. Peter took them and tried desperately to cut the chains. Neal winced in obvious pain. “I’m sorry,” Peter said as he tried again. Finally they were off and Neal bit his lip to stop himself from screaming as the metal was removed. Peter’s anger increased as he saw there was no skin around his wrists, just blood.

“Okay Neal, the paramedics will be here soon. I need you to stay awake, okay?”

He didn’t nod or say anything. He just blinked tiredly.  

“C’mon, stay awake. See I told you I would always be able to find you, right buddy?”

“I-I want . . .”

“Want what? What is it?” he asked gently.

“I want to go home . . .” he whispered as tears leaked slowly out of his eyes.

Peter’s heart broke. He nodded, “Okay, I’ll get you home, I promise.”

**************

Peter helped Neal stand as they took photos of his battered body for evidence. He tried to be as gentle as possible but he could see he was biting his lip from screaming, it didn’t stop the tears running down his face though.

He helped him in the bed and almost cursed at the doctor to get the medication into him sooner so he wouldn’t be in pain.

By nightfall he knew he wasn’t leaving Neal’s side. There was no way. They brought him a cot and a dinner tray and Peter was thankful they weren’t giving him shit that he was staying past visiting hours.

He was almost asleep when he heard Neal stir. Sweat covered his forehead and his breathing was rapid. He was about to wake him when his eyes shot wide open.

“It’s okay,” Peter said softly as he saw his eyes were full of absolute fear.

Neal didn’t respond; he just turned on his side and leaned over the bed. Peter thought he was trying to get up, he raced over to the other side and realized that he wasn’t trying to get up, he was trying to breath. He watched helplessly as he struggled to inhale. 

“Neal. Look at me,” Peter said gently. But he didn’t, he just closed his eyes tighter and grabbed his chest. “Look at me, Neal. It’s me Peter, open your eyes.”

And he did slowly. He blinked hard to make sure it really was Peter in front of him.

“It’s okay, you’re in the hospital, you’re safe.”

Neal felt his lungs start to fill with air as the oxygen finally made its way there. He loosened his grip on the edge of the handrail of the bed and took another breath.

“Good,” Peter said with a small smile. “Everything is going to be okay.”

But Neal didn’t respond, because he didn’t know if that part was true.

“Lay back down, I’ll stay right here, okay?”

Peter reached for the light over the bed to turn them off.

“Keep them on!” Neal shouted, his voice full of panic.

Peter quickly took his hand away from the switch. “Okay, no problem.”

***************

“What’s going on here?” Peter asked as he entered the room.

“Sir, we have been instructed to watch over Mr. Caffrey,” a man in a suit said.

Peter gritted his teeth. Two Marshals were standing over Neal’s bed, one at each side.

“No one informed me,” Peter said firmly as he kept a close eye on Neal, he seemed calm but he wouldn’t look at him or anyone else. He just kept staring at his hands.

“He does not have anklet on, Agent Burke.”

“He’s not a flight risk.”

“These are our instructions,” the other Marshal said.

“I want you two to get out now.”

“Sir we cannot do that.”

“Get out now.”

“It’s okay, they can stay,” Neal said quietly.

Peter frowned. He never knew Neal to want the Marshals to be around him, watching over him.

“Neal, they don’t need to be here.”

“It’s okay. I want them to stay,” he said softly.

Peter nodded. He got it. He didn’t feel safe alone. He didn’t see the Marshals as a threat; he saw them as protection, once they were his foe and now desperate to keep them as friends. Peter’s hatred for Copper grew even more if that was possible.

******************

Peter sighed as he watched the young man rest. Even in his sleep he looked scared, as if fear had been wrinkled into his skin. He saw Elizabeth at the door and got up quietly. They hugged tightly. “Oh my god,” she whispered as she peered over her husband’s shoulder.

“I know,” Peter whispered.

"Where did you find him?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer at first. “We . . .I . . . I don’t want to think about it.”

Neal stirred in his sleep. He rolled into his side; he grimaced in pain as his ribs exploded in fire. He took a deep breath. He instinctively reached for the nasal tube, he didn’t like it one bit.

“Hey, keep it on, okay?” Peter said gently.

Neal put his hand down and relaxed at the sound of Peter’s voice.

“Hi, sweetie,” Elizabeth said.

“Elizabeth, ” he whispered with a soft smile. Peter was intrigued, it was the first real small smile he saw elude from the younger man’s lips.

She put her hand gently on his. He shifted his body again to try and get more comfortable and again grimaced in pain.

Peter bit his lip as he saw Neal’s gown opening, exposing his back, cuts and bruises that were old and fresh littered it.

A nurse came in with a tube of cream in her hands. “Oh good, you’re already on your side. I have some cream for your back,” she said.

Elizabeth felt him tense up immediately as the nurse approached his bedside. “No,” Neal whispered tiredly.

The nurse didn’t seem to hear him and proceeded to put gloves on. Neal shook his head and closed his eyes.

“Excuse me, I don’t think he wants you to do that,” Elizabeth said.

“He’ll feel better,” she said with a smile.

“No!” Neal said louder.

“What if I put the cream on your back? Will that be okay?” Elizabeth asked.

“No, please,” he said as tears came to his eyes.

“Okay, can you tell me why not?”

“I don’t want anyone to touch me, ever again,” he said firmly.

She nodded immediately. “Okay, no one will touch you.”

He nodded, but she could see he didn’t believe her.

“What happened to him? Elizabeth asked her husband when they were out in the hallway.

“A lot of bad things, El,” Peter said quietly.

“Clearly.”

“God, El, when we found him . . . he was so . . . I only saw what I saw and that was awful, but who the hell knows what happened in the three months we couldn’t find him:”

They hugged each other, trying to find some comfort in this mess.

*******************

He glanced over the untouched tray of food near Neal’s bed. He hadn’t eaten dinner. Come to think of it, he hadn’t eaten much since his stay at the hospital. Peter shuddered at the obtrusive way Neal’s collar bone stuck out underneath the gown, even if it were covered in bruises, it was still there.

“C’mon, Neal, you have to eat,” Peter said as he nudged the bowl of oatmeal closer to the younger man. Neal glanced at Peter with tired eyes, threatening to close in exhaustion. He shook his head slightly.

“Tired,” he whispered.

“I know, but you’ll feel better if you take a few bites.”

Neal took a breath and eased himself up into a sitting position. His ribs ached tremendously. Peter brought the tray closer to him. Rage surged through him as he watched Neal’s once beautiful hands now laced with scratches and bandages awkwardly picked up the spoon. Peter told himself not to get angry, if anything they were battle scars, evidence of his attempt to fight back. But Neal looked so fragile and small, it was a wonder he survived the deranged ordeal at all.

After three bites of lumpy cold oatmeal Neal surrendered and lied back down. After this, he would be fine for three or four days without another morsel passing his battered lips.

\------------

Peter helped him up the stairs at June’s and Neal let him. He was too weak to do it on his own. He pushed through the burn in his legs and wiped the sweat that perspired on his brow to get to his room. And when he entered everything was just as he left it that Thursday morning. His painting was still on the easel, his book was still open to the last chapter he was on, the remote control still on the right arm of the couch. Everything was almost the same.

Neal leaned against the chair while Peter set down his bag. He rushed over when he heard small sobs escape from Neal’s direction. But he didn’t ask him what was wrong because he got it. The way Neal’s fingers traced over his fedora on the table let Peter understand that he thought he would never be home again.

The cuts healed. The skin on his wrists grew back and the bruises almost faded. But he still looked terrible, gaunt and pale, sometimes a grey to yellow sheen covered his face unnaturally.

He was damaged. So badly damaged he knew he would never be whole again.

And Peter knew it too. He knew it when they were just sitting in his apartment at the table drinking tea and Neal started sobbing for no apparent reason. And he didn’t stop sobbing until he was racked with exhaustion and Peter placed him in bed. Peter thought he was finally letting out some of the anger, some of the hurt that he had gone through, that perhaps this was the first step in healing.

“He should have killed me,” Neal whispered before he closed his eyes. And Peter knew Neal was broken from the inside out.

Peter would check on Neal every couple of days. It was always the same. He would always find him curled up in bed, the television on low volume playing some infomercial that he knew he didn’t give a damn about. A depression overtook him that was so deep Peter knew it would take just the wrong comment or look to push him over the edge that he already had his toes over.

Peter glanced around the apartment. He always checked the easel to see if any more of the painting had been completed but there were never any new brush strokes, never any new colors.

It stayed the same.

And Peter realized that Neal was slowly suffocating to death because painting was like breathing to him. If there was no paint, there was no air.

********************

“Neal, I think you should come back to work,” Peter said as he sat down on the bed.

He didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the television.

“I think it would be good for you.”

Neal nodded. It didn’t matter. He was already in jail. Being in prison and being shackled to Peter’s long arm was the same, just different scenery.

So he went back to work but he couldn’t focus. He would sit at his desk with papers in front of him and pretend to make marks on them to give off the appearance that he was working. Most of the time he just stared, unable to translate his thoughts through the pen to the paper.

Peter saw it. He saw it from his throne atop the steps that allowed him to gaze down onto his bureaucratic kingdom that he thought he worked so hard for. All he saw was a broken man in the corner, sad and depressed, filled with angst that took him away from the world and destroyed the spark that once lay in his blue eyes.

Their success rate dropped from the low 90’s to the low 80’s but Neal didn’t care. He didn't care if they added 100 more years of being bound to his electronic leash and if they wanted to throw him back into the penitently he was too weak to give a damn about it. Simple tasks like eating became too much for him and sleep became a nightmare. The sensation of the flashbacks caused him to vomit almost everything he ate and the only thing he felt was remorse for wasting Byron’s suits as they no longer fit him.

*****************

“He’s slipping away,” Mozzie said over his shoulder while sitting on the park bench.

“I know,” was all Peter could offer.

“He needs help.”

“I know. I don’t know how to. I don’t know what happened to him. Whatever that man did . . . I just don’t know.”

****************

“Is this all of it?” Peter asked as Jones put the thick folder on his desk.”

“Yes. That's all the evidence we have on Copper.”

Peter nodded.

“I don’t think you should look at it.”

“Jones, I appreciate your concern. I know its bad but--”

“No, Peter, it’s not bad . . . it's really awful.”

“I need to see what he went through. It may be the only way I can help him.”

Jones nodded and left.

Peter looked at the thick folder on his desk, he wanted it to disappear, he was afraid to open it but he placed his hand on it and proceeded.

He got halfway through it before he was crying silently. It was the photos of the house he found Neal in that got to him. First was the cell where he found him…it was different seeing it a second time . . . imagining Neal in there all those months. The bars were rusty, there was a bucket of dirty water in the corner, the chains were covered in blood.

And then there were the pictures they took at the hospital. Peter hadn’t seen these up close. Bruises covered his chest and stomach, some were in the shapes of hands along his hips and around his arm and neck, the cuts on his back were definitely that of nails digging into him, the teeth marks on his neck were red and raw and the ones of his face.. . . . it was hard for him to look at because in each of them Neal had tears running down his face.

 ***************

When Peter came by that Saturday afternoon he again found Neal laying bed, wrapped in a cocoon of soft blankets, perhaps to keep his bones warm or perhaps to shield himself from the world.

“Come on, get up,” Peter said as he stood over him.

“Leave me alone,” Neal whispered.

“I can't do that,” Peter said as he threw the blanket off his body. He ignored the shiver that escaped from his lips and grabbed his arm gently enough to let him know he wasn’t there to hurt him.

Neal let Peter drag him to the chair. He watched as he grabbed his duffle bag and pulled out a sketch pad and some charcoal. He placed the items in front of Neal.

“Draw.”

“What?”

“Draw, sketch something, I don’t care if it’s a tree or a circle, just draw.”

Neal stared at the objects as though they were foreign. Peter nudged the charcoal into his thin fingers and waited. He put it to the opaque paper but nothing happened.

“Please, Neal . . . anything,” Peter said softly.

But he just sat there, he couldn’t. He just couldn't do it. He angrily threw the pad at the wall and the long charcoal broke into pieces. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m just trying to help you,” Peter said.

“I don’t need help. I’m fine, I’m alive aren’t I?”

Peter looked sadly at him and shook his head. “You’re not.”

He instantly regretted saying those words because it looked as if he was about to crumble now. The younger man’s lip quivered and his eyes threatened to spill tears and this wasn’t why he came over.

*************

Neal contemplated whether to open the door or not. He didn’t want to get out of bed and he didn’t want to talk to anyone. This knocking was different though. It was soft.

He pushed himself out of bed and dragged his feet to the door. He didn’t bother to look in the mirror. If he felt as bad as he looked then he didn’t want to feel any worse.

He placed his hand on the doorknob but didn’t open it.

“Neal?”

He knew that voice. He opened the door. It was Sara.

What was she doing here? She was supposed to be in London.

Before he could say anything she stepped forward and put her arm around him. He didn’t say anything, he let her hug him and intoxicated himself in her scent. She was warm and gentle and he found himself exhaling in relief.

Sara hugged him a little tighter. Peter called her a few days ago and informed her what happened. She was on the next plane to NY after that. Peter warned her but she wasn’t prepared. He was pale and looked exhausted. His body was wracked with tension and the outline of his spine jutted out too easily again the soft touch of her hands on his back.

She caressed his face. “Oh, Neal,” she whispered.

“Hello Sara,” he said. He didn’t know why she was here but he didn’t mind.

She slowly grabbed his arm and led him to the couch. He complied.

“How are you?” 

He looked at his fingers. The nails had almost grown back completely. “Fine,” he said quietly. But Sara saw this wasn’t the Neal Caffrey she knew, this man before her was broken, distraught, fragmented.

He didn’t say much after that. He sat and listened to her talk. He didn’t even realize it when he mindlessly put his hand over hers.

She saw it though. And she let him. She could feel his uncertainty through his touch. Whoever did this to Neal, she wanted to kill for it.

“I brought ice cream,” she said playfully.

He forced a small grin for her. “Thank you,” was all he could say.

“Let me get you some.”

But before he could protest she was standing and heading towards the freezer. The cool air hit her face and dried the tear willing to spill from her eyes. She placed some of the mint chocolate chip in a bowl and two spoons.

“It's your favorite,” she said as she placed it on the table.

“You didn’t have to.”

But the way he looked presently told her she did. She would inject him with ice cream if she had too.

He played with the spoon and made no attempt to place any in his mouth. She frowned. She grabbed the second spoon and gently brought it to his lips.

“C’mon, it’s the fancy kind. The chocolate chips are from Brazil."

So he opened his mouth and let her feed him. The thick sugar liquid coated his tongue and dissolved down his throat like menthol punch. She did it again and again and again.

And suddenly he didn’t want it anymore. He put his hand up.  He imagined Copper force feeding him…shoving rotten food down his throat to keep him from dying.

“C’mon, a little more,” she said softly.

_You don’t even deserve this food, but I paid a pretty penny for you and I'll be damned if I don’t get what I paid for. Your not dying until I say so._

“I don’t want it," he said tiredly as his eyes drifted away from hers.

Sara was certain she saw tears  in his eyes.

_Your filth Caffrey. If it weren’t for your skills you would be in a dumpster by now. Your whore mother and bastard father didn’t even want to put up with your nonsense, but, one man's garbage is another man’s treasure._

Now he just hoped he made it the bathroom before he stained June’s floor.

It wasn’t hard for ice cream to come back up. It coated his sore throat but the blood that coated the top turned the green liquid into a disgusting brown that made him feel worse.

He flushed the toilet before Sara could walk in and when she did she didn’t try to hide her tears.

“Sorry," he whispered.

"Nothing to be sorry about, I shouldn’t have forced it on you."

She gently coaxed him back to his cocoon and wrapped him in the soft blankets. She caressed his head gently.

“Lay with me?” he asked.

And she did. She stroked her fingers through his hair until he closed his eyes and his breathing became even.

A half hour later she heard her phone buzzing. She quietly grabbed it and stepped out into the hallway.

“How is he today?”

“Jesus, Peter, not good. What happened to him?” 

And Peter didn’t know how to answer because he didn’t know what happened to him. All he knew was what he saw. The chains around his skinless wrists, the drugs injected into his veins, the decay around him seeping into his bones, Cooper treating him like an object, like he wasn’t a person.

“I think he needs to go to the hospital.”

“What?” Peter asked alarmed now.

“I tried to get him to eat some ice cream and I don’t know if his stomach just couldn’t handle it but he vomited. I'm pretty sure there was blood.”

“Dammit,” he said as he grabbed his coat and keys.

“He’s sleeping now but Peter, if he’s throwing up blood, that’s not good.”

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

It took some convincing but Neal agreed to go a doctor, not a hospital.

“Okay, Mr. Caffrey just some preliminary matters, please step on the scale.”

So he did and he himself became worried when he saw the number. He doesn’t ever remember being this underweight.

“Oh God,” Peter said under his breath as he too saw the number.

He lay on the table and let the doctor touch him but he didn’t like it. He focused on the chart on the wall and didn’t look at the doctor. He let out a soft groan as she pressed down on his stomach.

It turned out he had an ulcer. The stress of it all caused his body to turn on him.

She gave him a prescription for the pain and an appetite stimulate, told him to drink milk and take it easy.

He decided that last part would only be true if he were dead.

 *************

Neal stared at the television. It was 3 am. By 3:05 he found himself crying silently. He couldn’t do this. He sat in the corner of his bathroom and brought the razor to his inner thigh. The blood flowed freely and slowly. He exhaled in a way he hadn’t in a long time, with relief. He made another incision and laughed a little. He felt okay.

*************

“I need you to get me my files," Neal said.

"Prison?” Mozzie asked.

"No . . . hospital."

“Why?”

“I need to see them.”

“Neal, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Mozzie became slightly worried when he didn’t get a response back, just a look a defeat across his face.

"Hey Moz . . ."

"Yea?”

"Do you think . . . "

"What is it?”

“You think Kate was in pain when she died?”

And Mozzie didn’t really know how to respond to that. “I . . . um . . .”

Neal rubbed his wrist, feeling the scars through his thin shirt. He looked away from from his friend. “I bet she didn’t feel a thing.”

Mozzie called the suit after that.

**************

His mood improved a little. He found himself smiling a little more at the jokes Mozzie made for his benefit. He was sleeping a little better and he managed to eat at least once a day too. As long as he made his cuts he could breath.

Peter knew something wasn’t right. It couldn’t be a light bulb like that, so on and off instantaneously. Not even he was that good. And the tip off he got was that damn easel remaining blank. If Neal was truly okay, he would have sketched something, painted something, molded something. This, this was a performance. He caught the acts in between too. When Neal was at his desk, not interacting with anyone, he was quiet, distant, withdrawn, not displaying any emotion.

And Mozzie’s phone call made him very concerned.

So he caught Neal off guard. He showed at up his apartment unannounced. And then he saw it, poking out from underneath his sleeve.

Peter didn’t even ask to see his wrist, he just grabbed it.

"Get off of me!" Neal yelled as he yanked his arm back.

Peter ignored him as he grabbed him again.

"Stop!"

But he didn’t, he held on tight and reached for the sleeve.

"Stop! Please!’ he begged now as the tears came.

He gasped as he saw the cuts. Line after line after line up his arm. Some deeper than others, some fresher, some fading.

"Neal . . ." was all he could say as he finally looked up to the broken man.

"Stop," he cried.

"Why did you do this to yourself Neal?” he asked as he let go of his arm.

He fell to the floor to his knees. "I . . . I . . . "

"You don’t have to hurt yourself."

"Please, don’t take me to the hospital, they’ll lock me up. I can't handle that right now.”

And he said in such a way that Peter knew he didn’t have the heart to take him to the hospital, because they would in fact label him as unstable and throw him in a padlocked room.

"Okay. But I can't leave you alone."

Peter rummaged through Neal’s draws and found a duffle bag, threw in some clothes and handed Neal a jacket to put on. "You're staying with me.”

Neal didn’t say anything during the ride to Brooklyn.

Elizabeth didn’t bat an eye when the two came strolling through the door. She offered Neal tea and he accepted. She placed some cookies in front of him and then made a signal to her husband to meet her in the hallway.

"He needs to stay here," Peter said as he saw his wife looking visibly upset.

"You think that’s what I’m angry about? Look at him, Peter. I’m upset you didn’t bring him here sooner,” she said angrily.

He looked past her shoulder to see Neal’s thin shoulder slumped forward. Here sat at his dining room table was the infamous Neal Caffrey, one of the world’s greatest con men, now reduced to a fraction of human, devoid of any feeling, or self worth. It was the total end of the spectrum of what confidence was.

"He’s hurting--"

"Well of course he is, look at him!"

"Himself. He’s hurting himself . . . " Peter said as he pointed to his wrists.

Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief.

"I can't send him back to the hospital, they’ll send him back to jail, he doesn’t need that."

 

************

Elizabeth nudged more food onto Neal’s plate. He didn’t know why, it's not like it would make the food that he didn’t eat disappear. He forced another bite and then another.

"A little more," Peter said as he pushed the plate back to him.

And so he did, because he didn’t want to go back to jail.

He waited as long as he could. He really wanted the feeling of pain in his stomach to pass. He sat and stared at the wall in the spare bedroom trying to think of something else beside the sickness. He rubbed his belly but it didn’t take away any of the hurt.

And then he tried to lie down but the movement was too much and it was a miracle he made it to the bathroom. He collapsed to his knees and his knuckles brimmed white as he violently gave back the meal he devoured. And then he started crying for reasons he couldn’t explain. His eyes and throat were raw with redness and exhaustion as he continued to dry heave into the Burke’s once pristine porcelain bowl.

Finally he felt warm hands rub his back in circular motions. They were gentle, not forcing him to do anything and were there as support; there to catch him if he decided to fall.

"I told you not to force him to eat," Elizabeth said quietly as she quickly grabbed a small towel.

"You’re the one who put the food on his plate," Peter retorted as he took the now damp towel from her. "It’s alright," he coaxed as he continued to rub Neal’s back.

"I'm sorry," Neal sobbed.

"Why?" Peter asked.

"I don’t want to go back."

And then he collapsed against the wall in utter exhaustion. Peter flushed the toilet and wiped his face clean.

"I'm not going to send you to jail or the hospital because you couldn’t keep food down. I brought you here because I'm afraid you are going to hurt yourself." Peter said as he touched Neal’s forearm

Neal nodded as if he understood.

He coaxed Neal back into his room and helped him unbutton his shirt. He took one glance at the protruding ribs and clavicle bones sharply sticking out.  "Neal, I know it's hard, but you have to try and keep some food down okay?”

And Neal hated being exposed like this. He hated it so much. He hated everything.

"Okay?” he asked again.

“Where is Copper?”

Peter didn’t say anything. He was too stunned at the question. Why would he want to know that? "Riker’s," he finally managed to say.

"I want to see him.”

"I don’t think--"

"No Peter, I need to see him. I need to."

"Okay."

************

It took six days to get the paperwork approved. Peter didn’t think was a good idea at all but there was something in the way Neal said that he needed to see Copper that made him think otherwise, that perhaps it might be good for him. Perhaps Neal did need to see that bastard so that he could confront him. Hell, whatever Neal was doing now sure wasn’t working. He hadn’t managed to keep much food down and both he and Elizabeth had been woken up a few times this week by the sound of him either crying in his sleep or screaming during a nightmare.

"I'm going to come in with you," Peter said as they stood in the hallway of the prison.

Neal never looked so nervous. He looked like he was going to fall apart at the drop of a pin, but he shook his head as he kept his eyes on the empty room.

"Neal?"

"I'm fine," he said quietly.

But Peter could hear him hold his breath as he saw through the glass partition the guards bringing Cooper into the bare beige room, clad in orange and metal shackles.

"Breathe, Neal," Peter said softly. And he did the best he could. He turned around away from Copper and leaned against the wall for support as his kneels buckled slightly.

"You don’t have to go in. You don’t have to see him. We can just go back home, like this never happened."

He turned to Peter at those words. "But it did happen."

"I’ll be watching, okay?" he said reassuringly. Neal nodded and stepped inside.

Neal didn’t say anything for a good minute. He just stared at his nightmare.

"Doesn’t look like they take any better care of you out there than when I had you," Copper grimaced.

Peter shuddered from behind the wall. Even though they couldn't see him, he could see them and his fists clenched in total anger.

"Why did you take me?” Neal finally asked.

"Why not? Look at you,” Copper said with a sick smile. "Why did you want to see me? You missed me right?”

Neal was silent, he was trying to fight back the tears.

“You missed me, that’s it. Right?”

Again nothing.

“Answer me!” he shouted as he slammed his palms on the metal table. Neal jumped back in his seat startled by the outburst and movement.

"That’s it, that’s enough," Peter said as he walked into the room. Copper smiled at him. "C’mon, let;s go," he said as he placed a hand on Neal’s shoulder.

"From one captor to another,” Copper said. Peter felt Neal’s shoulders tense even more.

"Don’t talk to him,” Peter said firmly.

"Hey, he wanted to see me. Isn’t that right, Neal?”

"No! I want to know why you took me! Why you did those things to me!!” Neal shouted. Peter never heard him yell like that and it vibrated through his bones. But Copper's face never changed.

Copper leaned forward. "Well I'm not going to tell you. I'm going to let it eat away at you until you die...you're nothing but a thing Neal, nothing but an object and you don’t deserve to know. Your nothing."

Neal’s lip quivered.

“Tell me your nothing!” Copper yelled as he swiftly got up and leaned forward and yanked Neal’s wrist, pulling him inches closer. His hand quickly found his way to his neck.

Peter grabbed the monster and pushed him but Copper didn’t budge, his hands remained on Neal’s wrist and neck.

“I need some help in here!” Peter yelled as he desperately tried to push the bigger man away.

“Say it, Neal! Tell me you are nothing!” Copper yelled.

Neal was struggling to breath. Tears streamed down his face.

Three guards emerged and Copper let go of Neal before they could grab him.

“You ever touch him again, I'll kill you,” Peter said.

“Then I'll be a dead man soon,” Copper said with a sick smile.

Neal doesn’t remember leaving that room. He doesn’t remember if he left on his own or if Peter dragged him out. All he remembers is waking up in the Burke’s spare bedroom.

Peter placed the bowl of soup on the nightstand. It had been almost 18 hours since...whatever that was. Neal was a wreck.

"You were right, it wasn't a good idea,"

"I get why you wanted to see him.” Peter said as he saw the bruise on his wrist poking out from underneath his sleeve. And he did get it. He was looking for any kind of closure he could get. Something to wrap his brain around this whole thing. But Peter also knew that If Neal was willing to go to Copper for closure it meant  it was a last resort. There was nothing he could do after this.

******************

He put his jacket on and waited.

“Hey, Neal,” Elizabeth said as she entered the door.

He forced a smile.

“Are you cold?”

“What? Oh no, I uh, was just waiting for Peter.”

“Are you two going somewhere?”

He suddenly became very shy. “No . . . I was going to ask him to drive me somewhere.”

“Well I can take you if you'd like.”

“It's outside my radius."

"Well I can call and ask him, just tell me where you want to go,” she said gently.

"I want to . . . go to Kate’s grave.”

She frowned.

"I know it's dumb . . . " he said quietly as he read her face.

"No it's not, of course not, honey. It's just…"

"Yea . . . I know," he said quietly. He unbuttoned his jacket, defeat on his face.

"Let me call Peter and see okay?” she asked with a smile. But Neal didn’t give one back because he knew in the end he wasn’t going where he wanted to. Instead he let Elizabeth shove a peanut butter sandwich in his hand while she spoke to her husband.

He ate it slowly. It was the kind he liked, the crunchy kind, no crust. His mother used to cut it for him like this all the time…before she became a drunk.

He put the sandwich down. He decided he didn’t like peanut butter anymore.

 ************

Peter stood silently on the grass. He let Neal have his time with Kate. He watched him stand there for 15 minutes before he fell to his knees in absolute grief. He gently coaxed him up off the ground as the sobs became louder, more desperate, more inhumane.

They drove back to Brooklyn in silence because Peter was unsure if words would help him.

“I should have been on that plane with her.”

“Neal--”

“Then I wouldn’t be your problem.”

*************

Peter knocked on the door but got no answer. "Neal? I'm coming in okay?”

He saw no one in there at first. Then he peered around and saw him sitting with his knees to his chest in the corner and a file next to him, papers scattered everywhere, tears down his face.

"Shit," Peter said under his breath as he inched closer and saw what he was looking at. Photo after photo of his battered body, close up of wounds and cuts, teeth marks on his neck and shoulder, the cell he was in, the bloody chains on the floor, the empty needles in the corner . . . hell in a room.

He reached to pick them up. He didn’t know how he got this. Neal grabbed his arm firmly. "Don’t. Touch. Them."

"You shouldn’t see this," Peter said.

"I need to."

So Peter sat with Neal and didn’t say anything. He just watched the broken man in front of him go through the file and handed him tissues when he needed it.

************

He burned the pictures in the Burke’s backyard that very night.

He started spending more time outside in the sunlight, letting the rays hit his face and the wind rush through his hair. He let Elizabeth feed him cake. He let Mozzie entertain him with conspiracy theory paranoia and even found himself smirking at one of the bizarre allusions. He even let himself hold the charcoal to the paper that Peter bought for him but he never stroked the paper with it; they remained blank but he fantasized about the different linear dimensions he could create if he could bring himself to draw.

He distracted himself with case files that Peter brought him and the answers jumped out at him like neon paint against a white canvas. He helped catch some bad guys and that made him feel a little better.

And a month later he was able to gain 10 pounds and sleep through the night without the lights on or without waking up in a cold uncomfortable sickly sweat. Peter wasn’t afraid to leave him alone either.

Then Peter saw a remarkable sight when he came home from market with El; Neal was drawing in the sketch pad.

He didn’t say a word, not daring to say hello for fear of disruption. But as Peter was putting away the groceries he almost stopped him when he heard sobs coming from the living room. He looked to see tears running down Neal’s face, his breathing uneven, but he let him be as his hands continued to make strokes to the paper with the charcoal. Whatever he was doing, he needed to keep doing it.

Neal didn’t stop, he couldn’t. He had to purge it out. He was afraid but once he put that dark lead to the paper it took a hold of him and he went wild. He only stopped when exhaustion claimed him and the now stub of charcoal fell to the floor.

Peter came down the stairs as quietly as he could. He wasn’t surprised to see Neal asleep on the couch. He grabbed a blanket and placed it over the younger man. His face seemed less strained.

He was about to turn off the lamp when he saw the sketch pad on the table. He knew he shouldn’t look through it…but he had to. He had to know what happened.

He almost became sick at the first image. It was of Copper, holding chains, a cell in the background.

The next page was of Rebecca, holding a gun, smiling, a diamond at her feet.

The next page was of James Bennett raising his hand as if he were to slap someone standing in front of him, his eyes red with fury.

The next page was of Ellen, lying on a gurney in the street.

The next page was of Kate, sitting in a plane, her hand on the window.

The next page was of a fiery explosion, fire and debris all over the tarmac.

The next page was a picture of an anklet tied around an ankle.

The next page was of a jail cell with hundreds of little tally marks decorating the wall.

Peter kept looking, the closer he got to the end of the pad the more he could see the lines of the charcoal becoming less intense…not as harsh…they were softer…these pages were filled with beautiful illustrations.

There was one of expensive wine bottles.

One of a beach that looked similar to the one in Cape Verde.

One of the New York City skyline.

One of the city of Paris.

Then there was one of Sara.

One of June.

One of Mozzie.

The last page was one of him and El.

Peter breathed easier than he had in weeks as he set the journal down on the coffee table in the same manner as when he picked it up. He looked at Neal and let out a smile. He turned the lights off and headed back up the stairs. He made a mental note to to buy more charcoal and another sketch pad tomorrow.


End file.
